


Sherlock is a Sexting Menace

by orphan_account



Series: LJ Kink Meme Fills [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, John just wants a normal shift at work, Kink Meme, M/M, Masturbation, Sexting, Sherlock discovers sexting, clearly it is because Sherlock is a menace, is that too much to ask, non-established relationship, turns out John talks dirty in bed, turns out Sherlock's a massive pervert who knew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-06
Updated: 2012-05-06
Packaged: 2017-11-04 22:17:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/398793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19351.html?thread=114682263#t114682263">this prompt</a> on the LJ Kink Meme:</p><p>John getting distracted in work because Sherlock starts sexting him - as soon as John leaves 221B and until he finishes his shift. </p><p>Messages (first just innuendos, later graphic descriptions) and photos sent.</p><p>John blushing, having a hard-on (which becomes worse with the increasing number of recieved msgs). Collagues looking suspicious.</p><p>John arrives home and demands Sherlock to take things in hand (literally). Or in mouth, for that matter. Or up in the arse. John likes it when Sherlock is creative.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock is a Sexting Menace

John forced himself to get out of the warm and comfortable confines of his bed, stretching his arms and shoulder muscles before making his way quickly downstairs for a quick shower. After washing the important bits (running late, no time for a proper scrub, so it’ll have to do), he dashes back upstairs in his towel and throws on the first outfit that looks clean and ironed and vaguely co-ordinated.  
  
Sherlock hasn’t stirred from his bedroom, despite the noises John has created on his various dashes up and down the stairs. John is about to slip out unnoticed when he figures it’s polite to at least announce his departure, even if Sherlock is asleep and dead to the world.  
  
“Going now, Sherlock, back at 4,” he calls out, surprised at the “Hmph, alright” reply mumbled from behind the crack in the door to Sherlock’s room. He picks up his keys and phone, shoves them into his coat pocket, and leaves.  
  
As soon as the front door shuts behind him, his phone vibrates in his pocket. Fishing it out, he reads and then rereads it twice, to make sure it says what he thinks it does.  
  
 _You have a nice arse. - SH_  
  
John looks up to the upper level windows of 221 Baker Street, a confused look on his face. What?  
  
 _What? - JW_  
  
He resumes his walk, shaking his head slightly, trying to work out who Sherlock would have been trying to text - clearly, he’s got the wrong number. Phone buzzes again, still in his hand. Another from Sherlock, probably an apology. John opens his inbox.  
  
 _John, you are very aware of my dislike of repetition. Granted, it is early, so I will allow it this once. You have a nice arse. - SH_  
  
What game is Sherlock playing?, John thinks. He’s never messed with him like this before, he’s more used to body parts in the fridge, shrunken jumpers, and the like.  
  
 _Thanks, I think? - JW_  
  
The walk to the surgery doesn’t take long, and it’s a nice brisk morning, so John enjoys the walk. His phone buzzes twice more in his pocket, but he ignores it until he gets to work. He smiles a perfunctory hello at Elaine, the receptionist, and pops his head into Sarah’s office to say good morning. Grabbing a coffee from the staff room, he then makes his way to his consulting room at the end of the corridor. Sitting down, he switches his computer on, and retrieves his phone from his pocket.  
  
 _Yes, rare compliment from yours truly: only issue them to the deserving. - SH_  
Why are you ignoring me? I tell you that you’re gorgeous and you have the temerity to ignore me. Rude. - SH  
  
John struggles to suppress a smirk as he replies.  
  
 _You said I had a nice arse. You didn’t say I was gorgeous. - JW_  
  
John calls up the notes for his first patient, giving them a quick read-through before the appointment in ten minutes time. His phone buzzes again, louder against the wood of his desk than the fabric of his coat pocket, so he switches it to silent and opens the message.  
  
 _You could have simply extrapolated that opinion from my earlier declaration; obviously the owner of such a delightful derriere takes good care of the rest of his physique too. - SH_  
  
John blushes, despite himself. He has no idea what Sherlock’s playing at.  
  
 _What’s brought all this on? Is this for a case? You don’t mean it, you git. - JW_  
  
The reply comes surprisingly quickly.  
  
 _No case. After a period of reflection I have determined that I have developed an attraction to you, a sexual attraction. I most certainly do mean it, it wounds me to see you aren’t taking this seriously. I’m very serious indeed. - SH_  
  
John has three minutes until his patient is called through for her check up. Something deep down, the mischievous part of John Watson, compels him to respond with:  
  
 _How serious, then? Intrigued. - JW_  
  
He flips his phone over, so that his screen is obscured from both his and Mrs Hall’s view, although he notices the flash of the illuminated screen against the desk several times during the consultation. Seeing Mrs Hall off with a friendly smile and a prescription for Amoxicillin, he cautiously turns his phone over.  
  
 **< Media Message Received>** is displayed on the screen. John is slightly afraid to open it, unsure of what awaits him. He is almost relieved to realise it’s only a photo of Sherlock’s hand wrapped around his erect penis - knowing him, it could have been anything .  
  
There’s also a regular text message waiting for him too.  
  
 _Very serious, JHW. You can see how serious I am for yourself. - SH_  
  
Fuck. How do you respond to a photograph of your best mate’s erection, seemingly mid-wank?  
  
 _Show-off. - JW_  
  
Humour. Humour will do it. Right; time for next patient - Mr Stevens and his ongoing ear infection - definitely something that will distract him from whatever Sherlock’s doing. He spends ten minutes peering into an inflamed ear canal and advising the best way to cure it. He’s nearly forgotten about the steadily increasing number of peculiar messages being sent by his friend. He writes out another prescription and says goodbye.  
  
Elaine calls through to his desk phone. “Morning, Doctor Watson. Just to  let you know, Ms Mistry has cancelled her appointment, and we have no emergencies waiting, so your next patient is Mrs Campbell in twenty minutes.”  
  
“Thanks, Elaine. Let me know if she arrives early, would you? Cheers.” He places the handset back onto the receiver, and rubs his face with both his hands. “Bloody Sherlock,” he mumbles, checking his phone for messages again. Three more.  
  
 _You love it when I show off. You tell me I’m brilliant and amazing. I love it when you tell me I’m brilliant and amazing. Wonderful ego boost, you have no idea. - SH_  
I’m thinking of you, whilst I’m doing this. You’re telling me I’m brilliant and amazing, that my cock is brilliant and amazing. - SH  
Are you thinking of me? I want you to think of me. Think of me, John, hard and hot in my hand, heavy and throbbing under my fingertips. - SH  
  
Fuck. He’s never thought about Sherlock in any kind of sexual manner, but just knowing he’s the focus of his best friend’s current fantasy is giving his own cock ideas. He feels himself starting to get hard, and tries to will it away - there’s still pretty much an entire shift left to get through. He can’t sit here with a semi all day.  
  
 _Why are you doing this? - JW_  


 

 _Why not? - SH  
_  
 _Because I’m at work, Sherlock, and it’s entirely unprecedented. And did I mention, I’m at work? - JW  
_  
 _Ah, so you’re aroused too. Interesting. Is it the thought of me naked, debauched, touching myself? Or the thought that you’re the person I’m thinking of whilst I do it? - SH_  
  
I will never understand how the fuck you work things out, you know that? - JW  
  
I know that. I also know you’re thinking of me, wondering what I’m doing, how I’m getting myself off. I can describe, if you want? - SH  
You do want, I know you want. You’re wondering on my technique; is it like yours? I would hesitate to say not, but I know you prefer to get it over and done with in the shower. More efficient clean up that way. I’m using lubricant, slight twist on the upstroke, taking it slow to draw it out. - SH  
  
John is fully aroused now, and cursing himself. He’s single at the moment, so doesn’t feel guilty about his arousal, but he’s straight - he just doesn’t find men attractive, not his area. Then again, Sherlock has proved time and time again that he’s not a normal bloke, he’s a whole bloody area of his own.  
  
He flicks his eyes up to the clock on the wall, five minutes til Mrs Campbell is due in.  
  
 _Bet you’re really fucking pleased with yourself right now, hm? - JW_  
I’ve got four more hours on shift, you’re going to be a cocktease the whole fucking time aren’t you? - JW  
  
He can picture Sherlock’s smug smirk, as clear as day, as clear as if he was right in front of him. Oh, fuck, that was definitely the wrong image to have called to mind. Three minutes and he has another patient, and he is rock hard inside his trousers. Bit not good. Knock on the door, shit. Usually he’d get up and answer, but...  
  
“Come in,” he calls, hoping against all odds that he won’t need to get up from behind the desk during the consultation.  
  
Mrs Campbell walks in and takes a seat, chatting through her issues with John good-naturedly. He’s professional enough to be able to focus completely on her situation, but as soon as she leaves he breathes a sigh of relief. He’s got an hour on his schedule booked out for paperwork, which he’ll attempt but is already pretty sure he’s going to get sidetracked pretty quickly. A glance at his phone (hastily shoved in his top drawer the moment Mrs Campbell entered) confirms that his plans for his paperwork are well and truly out of the window.  
  
 _Oh, you have no idea, John. You think this is me being a cocktease? Just you wait. - SH_  
What do you expect I’m doing now? I could be rutting into one of your pillows. I could be fingering myself in your bed. I could be filling myself with a plug, all stretched and ready and waiting for you. - SH  
You’re rock hard, aren’t you? - SH  
  
How could I not be hard, with all this coming from you?! - JW  
Tell me, Sherlock, tell me what you’re doing. Please. - JW  
  
 _Oh, I could, but you can’t do anything about it, can you? What if there’s an emergency patient, and they’re rushed in to your room with the briefest of knocks? Imagine it, being caught, naughty John with his cock in his hand, leaking and ready to come. - SH_  
Just like me, John, ready to come. I’m going to shout your name, you can’t hear me but you can imagine it, can’t you? My back arching up from the bed, my hips bucking as I ride it out, my semen spilling over my hand, my head thrown back, eyes screwed shut, your name on my lips. Just close your eyes, John, see that, see that? - SH  
  
John closes his eyes, pressing his fingertips into the sockets lightly, before slamming one of his fists onto the desk. Fuck. He can’t last until half past three like this, but he can’t relieve himself, and he can’t leave. Fuck.  
  
 _This is torture. Fuck you. - JW_  
  
Poor choice of words, John, I’m hoping you’ll do exactly that. - SH  
  
 ** <Media Message Received>** pops up on the screen again. John opens it, less hesitantly this time. At first glance it’s just a picture of Sherlock’s hand, but then he looks closer and sees what’s coating Sherlock’s fingers. Fuck. Sherlock had actually described in detail exactly what he was doing.  
  
 _I should work on getting myself ready for you, I think. By the time you get home, you’ll not have the patience for the build-up. You’ll be ready to explode, to fill me up completely, on a hair trigger. Isn’t that right, John? - SH_  
  
But I’ll take this slow, you’re still going to be a while yet, aren’t you. Personally, still feeling pretty spectacular after that orgasm, perfectly content to just replay it over, and over, and over in my head. - SH  
  
John takes the opportunity to rest his head on his desk, instead of replying to Sherlock. He lets out a frustrated noise, louder than he expected to. Unfortunately, it draws the attention of Elaine, who’s just popped to the stationery cupboard opposite John’s office. She taps on the door, pushes it open slightly and pops her head around the door. “Doctor Watson? Are you quite alright?” she asks, concern in her voice.  
  
“No,” John says without thinking, lifting his head. He catches Elaine’s eye and she gives him a pitying look.  
  
“You look rather flushed, if you don’t mind me saying, Doctor. Maybe it’s best that you head home - if you’ve picked something up from a patient, you don’t want to pass it to any of the others now, do you? Stay there a second pet, I’ll go and check your schedule and see if Doctor Sawyer can arrange cover. Yes?”  
  
Usually John’s sense of duty would prevent him from leaving his shift early, but he realises it’s probably in everyone’s best interests if he gets home as soon as possible. He nods at Elaine, “You’re probably right, yeah.” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees **< Media Message Received>** flash up on his screen again, and lets out another involuntary groan. Elaine gives him one last worried look and closes the door behind her has she leaves.  
  
John clicks the appropriate button to open this new photo, and is confronted with a shot of Sherlock’s mouth, lips flushed red with arousal, two fingers liberally coated with saliva, half inside - cheeks hollowed, indicating that Sherlock is mid-suck. “Fuck,” he exhales, just as Sarah rings through to his desk phone. Taking a deep breath, exhaling via his nostrils, he answers.  
  
“Sarah. Doctor Sawyer, hi,” he manages. “Elaine...”  
“Go home, John. She says you look like shit. I can call in Doctor Gideon, he’s been bugging me for extra shifts, so it’ll get him off my back for a few weeks. And if you still feel awful tomorrow, let me know. You’ve been working too hard, not looking after yourself. That Sherlock Holmes is still a bad influence on you, hm?”  
“You have no idea. Thanks, Sarah. I’ll... I’ll let you know in the morning, yeah?”  
“Look after yourself, John. Go to bed and that’ll help. Feel better soon.”  
“Will do. Bye, Sarah.”  
“See you later, John.”  
  
John puts the phone down, deciding not to give Sherlock the satisfaction of knowing he’ll be home sooner than expected. He picks up his mobile again, and decides to play dirty.  
  
 _Those lips look good for more than fingers, to me. - JW_  
That’s more like it, John. Knew you’d play along eventually. I think they’re wet enough, now. Time to tease myself open for you, I think. - SH  
Would get you photographic evidence, but not the contortionist I once was; out of practice, don’t want to dislocate my shoulder. Again. - SH  
  
Satisfied that Sherlock’s none the wiser regarding his swift return, he picks up yesterday’s newspaper from his recycling bin (paper waste is only collected once a week, due to NHS cutbacks), in a half-hearted attempt to disguise his rather obvious arousal on the walk out of the surgery. There’s no way he’d survive the walk home with his dignity intact, so he flags down the first taxi he sees. “221 Baker Street. Faster you get there, the bigger the tip you’ll get, mate. All right?” The driver nods, and they speed off in the direction of home.    
  
Five minutes later, the taxi pulls up outside Speedy’s, and John pays £20 for a £9 fare. The driver looks pretty pleased with himself, and drives off as soon as John gets out so he can't change his mind about the tip. His hands shake slightly with anticipation as he fishes in his pocket for his keys. He pulls out his phone straight after, and hovers on the doorstep, not quite ready to enter the house.  
  
 _How many fingers, Sherlock? - JW_  
  
Two. Two fingers, achingly hard again. Could come again just like this. - SH  
  
 _Can you manage a third? Can you fit a third in your tight hole, for me, Sherlock? - JW_  
Or should I come upstairs and help? - JW  
  
 _NOW. - SH_  
  
John grins to himself, unlocking the door and slamming it shut behind him. He bounds up the stairs, two at a time. He heads straight to Sherlock’s room, but he’s not there. Cheeky bastard was in John’s room all along, must have moved up there as soon as he’d left. Without another moment of hesitation, he makes his way up to his own bedroom. The images swimming in his head all morning have been driving him to distraction, but they are nothing compared to the sight of Sherlock - living, breathing, writhing under the ministrations of his own fingers - it is almost too much to handle. He yanks his coat off with little care for where it lands, and the same goes for his shoes, socks,  trousers, underwear and shirt.  
  
Sherlock’s eyes are fixed on the rapidly undressing figure in front of him, his hand stilled as he observes. “You’re early,” he drawls languidly. “I’m glad.”  
  
John gives him a calculated smile. “Actions have consequences, Sherlock, you know that, hm?” He moves towards the bed, too slowly for Sherlock, and it’s driving him crazy. He starts to grind against his fingers again. “Third finger, now, yes, you can do it, lovely. Just. Like. That.” John is stroking his own erection as he watches Sherlock’s fingers disappear ever so slightly, before reappearing again. Sherlock, for his part, is watching John’s hand glide along his cock; he’s clearly been aroused for much longer than he’s used to, the precome leaking from his tip acting as ample lubrication for his rhythm. They stay like this, watching each other quietly, for several moments.  
  
John can’t take any more of looking but not touching. “Sherlock,” he breathes. “If you think, if you think you’re ready, pass me the lubricant. I need, I need...”  
  
With his free hand, Sherlock scrambles around on the bedside table to retrieve the tube of lubricant he’d used earlier, and passes it to John. Before he goes any further, John pauses, his doctor-brain finally taking over from thinking with his penis. “Sherlock, I get tested every six months, I’m clean, I know I am. What... what about you? Your last... your last test?” He hates having to ask; but knowing Sherlock’s past as an intravenous drug user, he knows it’s better to be safe than sorry. And he knows that on a logical level, if not right now, Sherlock will be impressed and glad that he’s been asked. Sherlock nods. “Two months ago. Clean as a whistle. No intercourse for two years before that. Now come on, fuck me like you mean it, John.”  
  
John doesn’t need telling twice. He squirts a little of the lubricant on his hands, warming it up between his palms before coating his cock. With the remnants on his hand, he slicks Sherlock’s hole after indicating he should remove his own digits. Not able to help himself, John slips two of his own fingers in - shorter and stubbier than Sherlock’s actually rather distractingly elegant fingers. He curves them, thanking his anatomy knowledge for his quick location of the prostate gland. He massages it lightly, earning a buck of the hips and a low keening sound from the back of Sherlock’s throat. Slowly, he pulls out his fingers, and positions the head of his erection at Sherlock’s entrance.  
  
“Here we go, Sherlock,” he mutters, pushing forward slowly. “You can take this, take it all, can’t you?”  
  
Sherlock moans beneath him, pelvis tilting slightly upwards, urging John to hit deeper, harder. He reaches to grab John’s shoulders, scrabbling for purchase, needing him closer, needing him more. “John, for fuck’s sake. Harder, faster, more, MOVE.”  
  
Always happy to follow a command (even from Sherlock; especially from Sherlock naked and sweaty and underneath him and willing), John picks up the pace and strength of his thrusts. As he finally slides in fully, his groin resting flush against Sherlock, John almost tips over the edge. He pauses for a few seconds, adjusting to the new, amazing feeling of being buried completely, the spasms of Sherlock’s muscles showing him new and intriguing benefits of sleeping with another man. He picks up the pace again, knowing they are both hurtling rapidly towards orgasm. “Touch. Touch yourself, Sherlock. For me, come for me, Sherlock, I need to see, you first.”  
  
Sherlock obeys, removing a hand from it’s grip on John’s good shoulder, snaking it down between them until he can wrap his fingers around the heavy, hot flesh. “Come on, Sherlock, like that, that’s it, come on, come for me, yes, oh god, oh yes, oh fuck,” John pants. It’s just a matter of moments until: “JOHN!”  
  
The combination of the sound of his name erupting from Sherlock’s lips just as their chests are splattered with the evidence of Sherlock’s second orgasm of the day, helps to pull John forward to his own, the release he’s been aching for all day. “Oh fuck, Sherlock, oh fuck,” he says, breath heavy. “That was. Brilliant. Amazing. Fantastic.” He grins at the man below him, enjoying the blissful expression on his face.  
  
He pulls out of Sherlock slowly, both of them inhaling a breath at the sensation. “You look like you’re about to drift off to sleep, you daft sod, but we, uh, should really have a shower now.” He smiles, placing a kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder. “And then we can think about doing this again, yeah?”  
  
Sherlock nods in agreement, but rolls onto his side, about to doze off. He feels his arm being grabbed, but not roughly, and then he feels himself being pulled out of the bed after John gets up. “Shower, you lunatic, come on with you. Dried on semen is not a good look, not even on you, you mad bastard. We need to get washed up, alright?” Sherlock nods again, finally following John, his John, downstairs.  
  
Finally, Sherlock speaks. “You’re planning to still be afflicted by this mystery ailment tomorrow, I take it?”  
“Oh God, yes,” John smiles, switching on the shower. “I’ll need to be tended to, one-to-one care, I imagine. You’ll look after me, won’t you?”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm working on a companion piece (John texting Sherlock) but it's not going as well as I'd hoped - I should have it up soon enough, though. 
> 
> Comments and criticism are always welcome - if you spot a typo or mistake, just let me know, I'll get it fixed quick sharp.


End file.
